Don't Look Now

by Max Manning

“Can I ask you a question?” he said.

  “Go right ahead.”

  “Is there something going on between you and Fenton?”

  She looked him directly in the eyes. “Would you mind if there was?”

  “There is, then?”

  She shifted a fraction to the side and leaned away from him. “No, there’s nothing going on. Why would you think that?”

  Blake sighed, the hollow feeling in his stomach fading. “I didn’t really think he was your type. Mr. Sensible. Lives life by the rule book.”

  Leah smiled. “And the negatives are?”

  Blake could think of plenty, but he didn’t want to keep talking about the detective. “Is there anyone?” he said.

  Leah dropped her gaze, then lifted her chin to look at Blake again. “Maybe, but there’s been too much going on.”

  Blake had taken the plunge and was determined to carry on. “What about us?”

  Leah paused for a moment. “Don’t misunderstand me,” she said. “Grief can do strange things to people. You’re confused, not thinking straight. I’m not Lauren. I’m not a substitute.”

  Blake was confused. He was confused about why she made him feel this way. Made him say stupid things. “You may look similar, but you’re nothing like Lauren. She was caring, gentle.”

  “And I’m not?”

  “You’re you. Come on. I mean you’re different, that’s all.”

  Leah stood up and disappeared into the kitchen. Blake stayed where he was, listening to cupboard doors and drawers being opened and shut. After a few minutes, she returned, her arms folded across her chest.

  “There’s something I can’t get past,” she said. “It’s something I can’t just push aside, and I don’t know if that will ever change.”

  Blake didn’t want to hear it, but he knew she needed to say it. “Tell me.”

  A sad smile crossed her face. “It’s simple. You’re my dead sister’s former boyfriend.”

  Fifty-Seven

  Childhood trauma, parental rejection, emotional starvation: these words are spewed out so condescendingly, it makes me sick.

  I wanted people to love me. I gave them ample opportunity. When they failed to see how special I was, I moved on. Well, it would be more accurate to say I was moved on. Usually at their insistence.

  When I could, I’d leave them a parting gift. It started small. The first, a favorite ornament. A tiny crystal swan given pride of place on the mantelpiece. Grinding it under my heel and kicking the glass fragments beneath the sofa made me feel good.

  On the day I left my seventh foster home, I decided to up the ante.

  The family’s ten-week-old kitten fit perfectly in the microwave. Ten minutes on the highest setting did the job. The couple decided not to report me. They were scared I’d come back and do something even worse. I learned an important lesson that day. I learned about the power of being feared.

  I hit the jackpot with my next placement. The weird thing is, I didn’t even have to try to make them like me. They took to me immediately. I responded in a way that surprised everybody. I started to behave well. My new foster parents were delighted. One day after school, all smiles and glances, they sat me down and explained that their prayers had been answered.

  I’d done it. I’d passed the test. I’d fooled the suckers. They adopted me. In exchange for pretending to love them, they gave me something that opened up the world to me. They gave me a new name.

  Without it, I wouldn’t be where I am today. Like a snake, I shook off my skin and slithered out of my past and into my future.

  Fifty-Eight

  Blake switched on the television and slumped on the sofa. He needed something to keep his mind off Leah. He reached for the remote and flicked through the channels on autopilot, not really registering what he was seeing.

  Leah had made it clear that she couldn’t contemplate a relationship with her sister’s ex. Not now. Maybe never. Blake understood, of course he did, but that didn’t mean he was ready to stop hoping.

  On the television, a news anchor announced that a Metropolitan Police detective constable had been charged with the I, Killer murders and remanded in custody. A mugshot of Ralph Ince filled the screen.

  The follow-up story focused on the reaction across social media. The correspondent’s blond curls bobbed as she reported breathlessly that the news that I, Killer had been arrested had exploded across Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook, with the image of Detective Constable Ralph Ince being shared, viewed, and liked hundreds of thousands of times.

  Blake switched the television off. He’d heard enough and needed to pay a visit to the late-night grocery around the corner. Outside, the cloudless night carried a hint of the winter to come. He reached the store entrance just as his neighbor walked out clutching a six-pack of lager. Blake stepped aside to let the man pass, but he stopped and rested the lager on his beer belly.

  He looked up at Blake and grinned, revealing a mouthful of tiny crooked teeth. “Me and the missus have noticed you’re doing a lot less running on that machine of yours. I’m not the sort of bloke who holds a grudge, so thanks and all that.”

  Blake gritted his teeth. The old man always rubbed him the wrong way. Blake couldn’t explain it, but he knew it was unreasonable. “No problem,” he said. “I’m doing more of my running outside these days.”

  The neighbor smiled again. “Good decision, mate. Much better for you. Also, I won’t have to complain to the landlord and get him to kick your ass.”

  Blake bit down on his bottom lip and shouldered his way into the shop, resisting the temptation to break the news that he was the landlord and was seriously thinking about getting a new tenant.

  As usual, the air in the grocery store carried the scent of decay, but it always looked clean. Blake wandered around for ten minutes before buying a steak and kidney pie that would be edible after a few minutes in the microwave. He spent another five minutes talking football with a pimply youth at the register before walking back to his apartment.

  He was fetching a cold beer to complement the pie’s unsubtle flavors when his cell phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number but answered it anyway. At first, he didn’t recognize the caller’s name either.

  “I think you’ve got the wrong number.”

  “No, mate, listen to me. It’s Perry, Perry Lee. The owner of Vic’s Café in Victoria Park. You get me?”

  Blake remembered. The smooth, shiny head and bushy beard. “Yeah, of course. How can I help?”

  “I think it’s me that can help you. You asked me to give you a call if I remembered anything new about the day that woman was murdered.”

  “Right.”

  “I ain’t remembered nothing. But I got something else for you.”

  Blake wondered if Lee had been drinking. “You’re confusing me. What’s going on?”

  “It’s that detective killer. I saw his photograph on the news. That detective’s been charged.”

  Blake still wasn’t sure what Lee was driving at, and he was losing patience. Hunger always shortened his fuse. “Yeah, I watch the news too,” he said.

  Lee laughed. It was an unpleasant snorting sound. “No, mate. You’re not getting me. That Detective Ince who’s the killer ain’t the Detective Ince who came to me café. He don’t look nothing like the one who took me security camera footage. Now do you get me?”

  Blake’s pulse started to race. “You’re sure about this? You know what you’re saying?”

  “Are you listening to me, mate, or what? That Ince on the television is not the detective who took the camera footage. He said he was Detective Ince, but he don’t look nothing like him. You get me?”

  Blake wanted Lee off the phone. He needed to speak to Fenton. “I get you,” he said and terminated the call.

  Fifty-Nine

  Belinda Vale sat at her desk in her con
sulting room and read through her notes one last time. She’d been working on an interview strategy for four hours. Her eyes were tired, and her head ached.

  Her private therapy work had ended at 5:00 p.m., and after an hour’s break for a light meal at a nearby Italian restaurant, she’d returned to the office to concentrate on the I, Killer investigation. She’d reached the conclusion that Ince’s apparent emotional distress and refusal to admit to the murders was a game, a mind game, a way for him to continue exerting control over the situation.

  Checks into Ince’s background had uncovered a surprisingly positive story. The only child of a single mother, he grew up in public housing in Barnet, North London, spent a few years in foster care. As a teenager, he’d kept out of trouble, except for one arrest for stealing beer from a supermarket. He was let off with a caution and, from that day, set his sights on joining the police.

  Vale closed her eyes and rubbed her eyelids with her fingertips. He didn’t fit her profile or the typical profile of a serial killer. Maybe Ince was the exception that proves the rule? One thing she had to admit, his performance under interrogation demonstrated a special talent for blending in, for deceiving. Behind that almost boyish mask of innocence and confusion lay a skilled manipulator.

  She grabbed her pen again and added a final paragraph to her interview plan. Appeal to Ince’s ego. Expose the secret narcissist. Hint at admiration for his achievements. Praise his organizational skills and daring. Phrase a few questions in a way that highlights the media interest in the case and the public’s fascination with his internet posts. Eventually, he won’t be able to resist taking the credit and telling everyone who will listen what a genius he is.

  Vale looked at the clock on the wall opposite her desk. If she left now, she’d be home by 10:30 p.m. Her headache was easing off. With luck, a good night’s sleep would see her restored to full health. She’d email DCI Tobin a copy of her interview advice first thing.

  She didn’t often drive to work, but her office came with its own parking space, which came in handy when she knew she’d be staying late. Putting her notes and her cell phone into her leather briefcase, she switched off her office light and descended the stone steps that led to the back of the building.

  Sixty

  Blake strode down Ludgate Hill, his breath curling like wisps of smoke from his lips, the huge, illuminated dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral dominating the skyline. Dodging the traffic, he crossed Farringdon Street, Perry Lee’s words repeating in his head like a mantra. “That Ince on the television is not the detective who took the camera footage. He don’t look nothing like him.”

  Halfway up Fleet Street, he turned onto Wine Office Court and ducked into the Star. The bar was packed. Fenton was already waiting for him, seated at a rickety, dark wood table, sipping a pint of beer. Blake pushed his way through the crowd and slipped into the seat opposite Fenton, where a full pint waited for him. Without saying a word, he picked up the glass and took a long swig. When he’d finished, he wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “I needed that,” he said.

  Fenton got straight down to business. “Do you think this Perry Lee is telling the truth?”

  Blake shrugged. “He’s got no reason to make this stuff up. Like I told you, he saw the mugshot on the television and realized it wasn’t the detective who came to his café.”

  “You know what this means?”

  “It means we’ve got a big problem.”

  Fenton sized up the nearest group of drinkers to make sure he wasn’t going to be overheard. “It means that there’s a good chance that Ince isn’t the killer. It means that the police have the wrong man. We gave them the wrong man.”

  Blake took another sip of beer and mulled over the possibilities. “What if Ince had an accomplice? Maybe the murders are the work of two men.”

  Fenton shook his head. “It’s highly unlikely. Serial killers rarely work that way. They’re lone wolves.”

  Blake knew Fenton was right. “But what about the knife? And the phone?”

  “Think about it,” Fenton said. “There’s only one explanation.”

  Blake already knew the answer. It’d been lurking in the back of his mind since Lee called him, but he’d pushed it away. “He was set up.”

  Fenton nodded, picked up his glass, and drained it. “You’ve got it. Top marks.”

  Both men stared at each other as the significance of the situation sunk in. “There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Blake said. “How did the killer know we’d find the stuff he planted?”

  “He didn’t know. He probably had a plan to lead the police to Ince, but because the café owner told you about the camera footage, we were ahead of the game. Well, we thought we were.”

  Blake had to admit it made sense. With his help, the killer had struck lucky. “What now?” he said. “What happens if we go to the police with this? Tell them everything?”

  Fenton had been asking himself the same question. “They’re not going to take our word for it, that’s for sure. They’ll need to speak to Perry Lee. Interview you about breaking into Ince’s apartment. Speak to me about working on the case with you.”

  “So I’ll be charged with burglary, and you’ll be kicked off the force?”

  Fenton lifted his empty glass, stared into it for a few seconds, and put it back on the table. “That’s about it,” he said.

  Blake downed the last of his beer and stood up. “Do you want another?”

  Fenton shook his head. Blake edged his way through the crowd toward the bar. He was gone a good ten minutes. When he returned, he was carrying two pints. He put one on the table in front of Fenton. The detective said nothing but nodded his thanks.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Blake said.

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “I was wondering how the killer planted the evidence in the apartment.”

  “He probably did what you did. In through the back door. It can’t be that difficult if you managed it.”

  Blake ignored the insult. He was too busy thinking. “Maybe there is a way to sort out this mess.”

  “Such as?”

  “Catch the real killer.”

  Fenton shook his head. “It wouldn’t be right to keep this information from the police. If the killer’s still out there, it wouldn’t be ethical to keep this to ourselves. He could be ready to kill again.”

  “You said yourself that even if we give the police everything we’ve got, they’re unlikely to believe us until they’ve completed a thorough investigation. Going it alone could mean the killer is off the streets before he kills again. Surely, that would be justification enough?”

  Fenton gave Blake a curious look. “I agree that if we genuinely believed we could find the killer quicker than the police, then maybe that would be the way to go.”

  Blake smiled for the first time since he took Perry Lee’s call.

  “I take it you’ve got an idea?” Fenton asked.

  “Damn right I have.”

  Sixty-One

  Belinda Vale opens the door to a blast of cold air. She steps into the darkness, turns, closes the door, and locks it.

  She walks quickly to her car, sighing as she slides behind the wheel. Pulling her seat belt across her body, she starts the engine, switches on the headlights, and reverses in a gentle arc. A grinding noise causes her to stop. She tries again. The grinding is even louder.

  Banging the palms of her hands on the steering wheel in frustration, she climbs out of the car to check the back of the vehicle. The nearside tire is flat. A six-inch gash in the rubber.

  “For fuck’s sake,” she shouts. She stands in the dark for a few seconds, taking deep breaths. Pulling her cell phone out of her jacket pocket, she decides it’s too cold and too dark to wait outside. She walks back to the door, unlocks it, and steps inside. As she turns to shut the door, it swings inward,
smashing into her shoulder, spinning her around.

  She staggers, breaks her fall with outstretched arms. Something snaps in her right wrist, but she ignores the pain, scrambles up, and runs to the stairs.

  Halfway up, she misses her footing and sprawls facedown. A hand grasps her left ankle. She cries out, more in fear than pain, and looks over her shoulder. She recognizes him immediately. With that recognition comes two thoughts. One: My profile was right all along. He’s a perfect match. Two: I’m going to die.

  He has her ankle in his right hand and a cell phone in his left. He aims the camera lens at her face. “I’m going to make you a star,” he says.

  Sixty-Two

  Walking along Cannon Street, heading east, Blake was oblivious to the glittering beauty of the city at night. He had only one thing on his mind. If he was right, they had a chance to unmask the real killer. He’d explained his plan to Fenton, and they had agreed to give it a try. Tomorrow couldn’t come quick enough.

  The last Tube trains had long gone, but the heart of London never stopped beating. The pavements were still busy with revelers looking for another late bar. Blake veered onto Queen Victoria Street and then along Threadneedle Street, passing the fortress-like walls of the Bank of England before turning up Old Broad Street, Perry Lee’s words still ringing in his head.

  Ahead, a large crowd milled around the junction with London Wall, the air thick with voices. Blake thought about taking a diversion down Great Winchester Street, but curiosity got the better of him. Edging through the melee, he reached a single line of police tape stretched across the road. Two police constables and one police community support officer, all of them wearing stab-proof vests, were doing their best to stop people from breaching the fragile barrier.

  Several members of the public were yelling about having last trains to catch, and every so often, one plucked up the courage to duck under the tape and sprint across the road toward Liverpool Street station.